


Build Yourself Up (On the Bodies of Your Foes)

by Lionfire42



Series: The Marvelous Brotherhood [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Concerned Jacob Frye, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jacob Frye is Trying, Mental Health Issues, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Winter Soldier Evie Frye, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29270856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lionfire42/pseuds/Lionfire42
Summary: Jacob's musings on his life: what could have been and what is.
Relationships: Evie Frye & Jacob Frye
Series: The Marvelous Brotherhood [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717084
Kudos: 7





	Build Yourself Up (On the Bodies of Your Foes)

Sometimes Jacob dreamed of the life he'd anticipated after the war.

A small country house, maybe. One near the sea, to wash away the stink of the cities and smoke and blood and gunpowder. A witty and stunning young woman, with the mind to match, and his ring on her finger. One who would smile and laugh and make jokes over tea with Evie, as he and whatever bloke lucky enough to be chosen by his twin chatted over beers about something mundane — sports perhaps.

They'd have a couple of kids; or perhaps they'd adopt a few of the distressingly many war orphans. A boy and a girl, to even each other out. Perhaps even twins; it ran in the Frye blood and there was something special in having a companion from conception — something magical in having another half.

They'd be taught how to read and write and shoot and fight by him and Evie, who'd cluck at his insistence, but who'd jump into training wholeheartedly, all too aware of the darkness of the world they'd have fought to defend. 

Perhaps she'd have her own children; perhaps the fear of the fate of their mother would be conquered. He'd be there of course, full of anxiety and fear, but doing his level best to quell it. She'd see right through him though, and they'd snipe at each other, distracting each other all throughout the months, up to and during the point where she'd be barking at his hovering and outright snarling at her man for putting her in that position in the first place.

Their children would always be able to play with each other, their cousins living next door, swinging in and out of their aunt and uncle's house as easily as they did their own. Christmas would be a simple matter of walking next door, or across the street, with barely the need to slap on a jacket, because what would be the point when you simply had to traverse on a thirty second journey?

They'd invite the Strum brothers — Billy would roll his eyes, a smirk on his face as Dennis would chatter about the bakery he'd opened, a childhood dream. Agnes and Durand would take glee at infuriating and flustering Abberline, who'd grumble about the country trip each year but make it regardless and with carefully wrapped gifts ready to be torn apart by eager young hands. Ned and Robert would talk business over scotch, debating tactics and stocks and other matters of currency until the children eventually begged Robert to do tricks and magic and Ned captivated them with tales from America. Evie and his wife would snag Clara while he and his brother-in-law would rib and encourage Nigel to finally propose.

Maybe he'd become a boxer or a boxer's trainer. Maybe get Ned and Robert to run some books on the side. Evie would be a writer, no doubt, giving a grim account of their adventures during the war, refusing to let fade the sacrifices they'd made. She'd smirk when he tried to wheedle her to embellish his actions, instead gleefully documenting his more embarrassing moments in revenge.

There would be nightmares, of course. Terrors of the war that his spouse would never understand. Fights and petty disagreements that would seem so silly in hindsight. There would be tears and icy silences and Evie kicking his arse into gear as he realized his own insecurities and fears and the way they manifested. There would be makeups and laughter and bonds made stronger by being tested.

There would be nights to pick his sister's brain and vice versa. Dreams and fears drawn out over tea. The quiet and loud reformation of a bond that endured for decades prior and future.

There would be family. 

There would be hope. 

There be peace.

"Jacob."

Jacob carefully pushed himself away from the bluff edge and into the foliage, making sure he was out of sight before turning to look at his twin.

Now, a year or so later, he could look her in the eye without flinching, even though the frigid blue staring back at him made him want to cry or snarl, he didn't know which. 

It wasn't her fault. She had softened, away from the burning ~~torture~~ influence of the Templars and immersed in the wit and banter Aveline, Alexios and Desmond provided. She wasn't constantly disappearing for days on end and her new arm, matte black and interlaced with soft gold seemed to weigh less on her—physically, mentally and emotionally—than the blazing silver and red monstrosity the Templars had latched onto her.

Soft didn't mean harmless. Her mind and mannerisms reflected a woman constantly on the edge, a straight razor as likely to slit your throat as much as give you a shave. She was a beaten creature, no less lethal and scarred, even though she'd ripped her leash and muzzle off and strangled her oppressors with it. She wandered the halls at night, unable to believe in her own freedom and safety, disassembling and reassembling her guns and cleaning her knives, her bloodstained dreams refusing her peace.

She spent her days in the training room, beating bags and lifting weights until even her seemingly limitless stamina and endurance began to wane. She barely ate, her stomach still unable to handle the quantities of food she actually needed, instead living and fighting and surviving on drinks and smoothies and bread, the effect of decades of abuse by people who hadn't seen her as anything more than a tool that needed tuning once in a while.

They'd sliced into her, violated her, molded her to their needs. They'd pushed her to her limits and beyond, scraped her up, hammered her together and did it all over again, honing her into a diamond edged knife.

And after all that, she didn't lash out or cry or scream. She just became more and more quiet, and more and more lethal.

Jacob wanted to howl and shake her. _React!_ He wanted to demand. _Yell at me. Show me you're still_ human. 

How could she remain so detached when she retold her experiences? How could she so nonchalantly mention how she was made to starve, how she was beaten and groped and programmed to continue regardless? When they took away her future, made her bleed and took away her womanhood because the aspects of what made her a female were _inconvenient_.

It made him furious at her, at them, then guilty, then furious at feeling guilty. A never ending cycle.

But then...they went on a mission, a sabotage of a Templar money-laundering operation.

And he discovered where that emotion, that rage and hatred and pain was buried. And how it got released.

Jacob thought he hated Templars.

Evie showed him what true hate was.

So now, he looked at those icy eyes, glinting with a spark of something he'd seen decades prior and smiled. 

His sister was in there somewhere. And if it meant a few hundred Templars to get her back?

Let them come.

  
  



End file.
